


Blind As a Bat

by The_Glittery_Hedgehog_Ninja



Category: Bleach
Genre: Arrancar, Blindness, Espada, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Powerlessness, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-11-16 05:59:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11247747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Glittery_Hedgehog_Ninja/pseuds/The_Glittery_Hedgehog_Ninja
Summary: Nothing is more jarring than awakening after having being pronounced dead—even more so when awoken completely blind.Eight years after his ashen demise, Ulquiorra resurrects, weakened but unaffected in his powers, save for his precious eyesight.Entering the World of the Living in search of answers, he reencounters Ichigo and Orihime Kurosaki, who persuade him to find happiness in their world.





	1. 1 | The Ash, Again.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if the beginning is kinda slow, I just really like describing things, especially Espadas that are close to dying.

The raucous wind howled through the gray skies of Hueco Mundo.

Queen Harribel reigned supreme from Las Noches, and a predatory peace haunted the desolate land.  The low wails of Gillians echoed from quartz tree to quartz tree.  Adjuchas traveled in small and rowdy packs, careful not to arouse the queen’s suspicion, while Vasto Lordes stampeded across the dunes and asserted their dominance.    

A pebble skipped across the sea of white, and all became silent.  Slowly, a cloud of dust collected on a mound, and a figure began to take form.  First an arm, then a leg.  A lanky black wing pierced the sky before another followed.  A shadow shrouded in dark fur rose from its former ashen, corpse-like position on the ground.

He had done it.

In a mere eight years, he had regenerated everything, from the pale skin covering his bone to the lungs and liver and internal organs that Ichigo Kurosaki had pierced.    
  
A burst of power went out of him; his batlike wings disappeared, and his fur dissolved, as his long-tailed white uniform reappeared on his body.  His tail retracted, and his horns dissipated, instead forming the half of the helmet that adorned his head.  The wide, tear-like estigma under his eyes thinned and faded to a dark green.  
  
Ulquiorra Cifer, Cuatro Espada, was back.  
  
He blinked languidly and detected that something was amiss.  He reached out and brought a hand to his eyes, which felt strange and dark.  
  
Seated in his eye sockets, there was nothing.

He was only mildly surprised.  He was used to there being an emptiness in his eyes; he had used Solita Vista several times to show Lord Aizen exploits he had witnessed, yet there had never been a time where it had been necessary to pluck out and crush _both_ eyes.    
  
His eyebrows raised a nearly imperceptible amount, as he channeled his reiryoku toward his eyes in a nonchalant attempt to regenerate them.  Normally, for any non-internal organ, he would have felt a glimmer of feeling and the immediate effect of high-speed regeneration; this time, he felt nothing but the empty pressure of his reiatsu clouding his eye sockets.  
  
He let out an uncharacteristic curse.  “Damn.”  
  
Ulquiorra shut and reopened his eyes.  Terse irritation flooded through him.  There was not a single difference in the acuity of his vision whether he closed or open them.  It was all darkness.   

He supposed it suited him.  What had he said before? _“If this eye cannot see a thing, then it does not exist.”_ Now there really _was_ nothing.  
  
A lingering doubt flew upon him.  Was there ever anything in the first place?  
  
“Nonsense,” he chided himself.  “Just because your eyes see no longer doesn’t interfere with what your eyes once saw.”    
  
He had seen Ichigo Kurosaki transform into a Hollow-like being in order to save that woman—Orihime Inoue, was her name, wasn’t it?  He had seen the Hollowfied Kurosaki stab the Quincy, had seen _himself_ succumb to the impudence of death as he assured himself that the woman wasn’t afraid of him.  He had watched the dust of his ebony wings disintegrating cling to the harsh wind and follow it across the dunes.  
  
Ulquiorra wasn’t exactly sure how he had regained this physical form, as on the day of his death he had become one with the sands of Hueco Mundo.  Unlike other Espada who, if they ever managed to regain their previous forms, would charge after their killers, burdened by a sense of revenge,  he wanted nothing more than waste away and die.    
  
Living as a nihilistic figure whose main way to discover reality or not—his eyes—had been destroyed, just proved life as meaningless as it had been before.  
  
On the cusp of death he had admitted to the existence of a heart.    
  
“It lies within this palm,” Ulquiorra repeated. “The heart.”  He clutched an empty fist and closed his eyes.  Perhaps he would hold himself to that statement.    
  
A shred of light glimmered through him and a membrane-thin veil of peace covered him.  He reached out a hand toward the sky, surprised at the tremendous effort it took to do such a simple action.  He dared to take a step, and a spell of dizziness overtook him.    
  
Ulquiorra clenched his teeth.  His reiatsu had yet to recover after his death.  His body may have been fully-fleshed, but his powers were dormant and weak from unuse for so long.    
  
A moment later, the spinning in his head became too much and he was forced to lower himself to the ground.  The sands were irritating against his skin, and he flinched.  Was his hierro also diminished?  
  
Slowly, he brought himself back to his feet, wobbling only slightly.  A blind sense of direction was no sense of direction at all, so he followed the faint guidings of his weakened pesquisa to the nearest source of overwhelming reiatsu—perhaps, a fellow Espada who could explain what had happened in Hueco Mundo over the course of eight years.  
  
It was a slow task; his Sonído faltered, and he flickered in and out between long strides and short steps like a fallacious mirage.  
  
By the time Ulquiorra arrived, he was short of breath and running dangerously low on patience.  The scene of the reiatsu that proliferated through his pesquisa showed him but a single figure of high, but slowly waning reiatsu.  The sharp smell of chemicals and death punctured his nostrils and the air felt even drier on his hands.    
  
This reiatsu no doubt belonged to the Octava Espada, Szayelaporro Granz.  
  
“Strange,” Ulquiorra commented drily.   _Szayelaporro isn't one to live life at a standstill_ .  The Octava was always flamboyant and busy, whether it had been persuading low-level Arrancar to sacrifice themselves as his test subjects or perfecting his Gabriel technique.  
  
He reached out an arm toward the direction of Szayelaporro’s reiatsu.  Blindly, he felt something bitterly cold and smooth.   _A blade_ , he deduced.  His hands ran along the length of it before reaching another surface.  It was almost leathery, and the more his hands wandered did he recognize tips of taloned fingers and the roughness of a palm.  His hand reached where the hand and the sword connected.  
  
Ulquiorra’s frown deepened.  Szayelaporro made no movement, no cunning acknowledgement that he could decipher.  The man stood as still as a statue, his hand still pierced by the sword.  It was not something that the Octava that he once knew would have done.

Just how much had changed since he had died?

He released his hands from Szayelaporro’s figure.  Obviously, the Octava had been defeated somehow, although through whatever means, he could not tell.  Perhaps, eternal paralysis?  

Lowering his head, he deduced that he could no longer feel the commanding reiatsu of Lord Aizen or his shinigami comrades.  Nor could he sense the Primera, Segunda, Quinta, Séptima or Diez. Strangely enough, Harribel’s reiatsu shrouded the land like a veil, and he could detect Grimmjow and Nelliel’s faint presences.    
  
A chill ran through him.  Could they have been defeated?  Defeated,  _Lord Aizen_ and his precious Hōgyoku?  There was—there was no way.  Lord Aizen was the most powerful man he knew, there was no doubt that he could defeat Ichigo Kurosaki and his ragtag team of shinigami.  
  
_Ichigo Kurosaki_ .  It had to be him.  There was no one more irritating enough who could possibly overpower Aizen.  
  
Ulquiorra felt another burst of power withdraw from him.  A jolt shook his body and terror took hold of his bones.  Weariness sapped his strength, and he lowered his eyes.  
  
“I see.”  The previous time he had felt this sort of power drainage had been a few minutes ago when he had changed from his Ressureción Segunda Etapa form to his normal Espada uniform.  He deduced that it signified power drainage.  “There is no form lower than this I can sink to.  It seems as if the only reason I regenerated this body was to die once more.  So be it.”  
  
Another gush of power left him.  His eyebrows rose, and he fell forward on his knees, not having any control of his body.    
  
As weakness flooded through him, Ulquiorra surprised himself with a sudden and newfound fear of death.  His words may have welcomed an uncaring demise, but—but his . . . _heart_ spoke volumes otherwise.  He had just regained this life, yet he was not raring to boast about this near-godlike wonder.  Ulquiorra just wanted to . . . live.  Live quietly.

It seemed, as more power left him, that living quietly was not an option.  No doubt, death was around the corner and the end of his new life along with it.  
  
A new resolve struck him like a lightning bolt.  He knew what he would do.    
  
Opening a Garganta, Ulquiorra thought, _I will go to see Ichigo Kurosaki, and I will make him tell me how he defeated Lord Aizen.  That is all the information I would like to know before I die.  By the time he answers the question, the rest of my power will be drained and I will quickly return to Hueco Mundo.  I cannot, and will not die in the World of the Living._

He stumbled to his feet, wary of the weakness of his muscles, and he pierced the air in the fashion that he did to open a Garganta.  He could not see if the portal had opened or not, but could hear the loud sounds of the bustle of the human world.  It was so very distinct from Hueco Mundo’s silence.  He stepped in the direction of the ruckus.

Ulquiorra landed hard on the firm concrete of the World of the Living.  The air was so thin and nearly devoid of reishi, which did not help his waning powers one bit.  In fact, the creation of the Garganta had taken significantly more power out of him than it had before.

He inhaled deeply, trying to catch fragile breaths.  If he had thought he felt weak before in Hueco Mundo, the vulnerability was so much greater in the World of the Living.  It seemed that he had grossly underestimated what would happen to him if he left home.

Ulquiorra felt his knees buckle in frailty as he held his head high with his eyes closed in the direction of what felt like a familiar reiatsu.  His pesquisa had been diminished severely by now and he could no longer pinpoint who it was.  The only two memorable humans he had come in contact with were Ichigo Kurosaki and Orihime Inoue, so that narrowed down whose reiatsu it could be.  While he preferred to find the Substitute Shinigami, he supposed that the woman would work almost as efficicently as an information source.

Navigating among swaths of people with no eyesight proved to be difficult.  Normally, he would have plowed through crowds easily, making paths amongst the trash for himself with Ceros or raising his own reiatsu to a point where no one could stand in his presence.  In this endeavour, though, he could do neither, so he soundlessly marched himself, staggering every other step, straight toward the familiar reiatsu.

When he neared the source, Ulquiorra’s footsteps stumbled more frequently and his breaths became so labored and inconsistent that he could not even dare call them ‘breaths’.  Pain rocketed through every step he took and the next bolt of power that left him—and just when he had arrived at his desired location—caused him to tumble to his knees.

“It’s—it’s nearly comical,” he panted, feeling the last of his power and life ebb away.  “I f—finally reach the place of my killer—and in turn, die—die my . . .”  The last of his power left him and he collapsed headfirst onto the ground.  “Self.”

* * *

Orihime Kurosaki peered into the oven carefully, giggling in anticipation.  She had set her kitchen timer for exactly forty-two minutes—which in her opinion, was entirely too long a wait—in order to bake her favorite wasabi-cheese-chocolate-seaweed cupcakes.  They were the ultimate combination of sweet, savory, and spicy, and it was nearly impossible for her to go a week without baking a batch.  

“Hm,” she deduced as she poked the tips of the cupcakes with a fork, “they’re not quite done yet.”  Orihime pouted and turned her timer for another five minutes.  

A loud _thud_! interrupted her cupcake-baking induced musings.  A worried look stretched across her face and she called, “Ichigo?  Was that you?”  She readied her Shun Shun Rikka powers in case he had hurt himself.

“No,” her bright-haired husband replied as he walked down the stairs.  He sniffed the air.  “Are you baking those cupcakes of yours?”

“Yep!” Orihime replied, smiling brightly.  Her grin fell for a moment as she asked, “Did you hear that strange noise?  It was really loud.”  

Ichigo walked toward the front door, “Yeah, probably somebody dropped something heavy next door.  Don’t worry about it.”  He began to put on his jacket.  “I’m going to get the mail—I’ll be right back.”  

Orihime turned back to the oven as she heard him open the door.  She noticed happily that the muffins were turning more golden brown by the minute.  

“Uh, Orihime?”  Ichigo called, his voice wavering a bit.  “I think you’d better come see this.”

“What is it?”  she asked, rushing as she dried her hands on her apron.  Her eyes widened as she saw what lay on the doorstep.  

Sprawled on the ground, eyes closed and reiatsu waning, was Ulquiorra Cifer.

Ichigo reached for his well-worn Combat Pass instinctively.  “What the hell is _he_ doing _here_?  Didn’t he turn to ash or something?”

Orihime looked at the pale man for a moment.  It was strange, almost harrowing, to see him here, at her doorstep.  A wave of pain washed over her.  “I—I think he’s hurt,” she said, as she reached toward him.  

Ulquiorra made no movement, and concern etched on Orihime's face.  She turned toward her husband as she knelt down to the Espada.  “Ichigo, something’s wrong.”

He reached down toward his wife.  “Yeah, I see that.”  Ichigo sighed deeply.  “I guess we should probably bring him inside.  He looks harmless enough.”  
  
Orihime nodded determinedly and yanked on Ulquiorra’s hand.  She grunted stubbornly; he was heavier than he looked.  Ichigo offered to help, but Orihime instead, raised him off of the ground using a golden pallet made from her Rikka powers.  

She laid him down on their living room floor and quickly examined his reiatsu.  Like she had assumed before, his reiatsu _was_ waning.  Carefully, she rolled up the white sleeves of his Espada uniform, surprised to see slight scrapes dot his arms—didn’t Arrancars have skin that was supposed to be as hard as iron?  Orihime summoned Shun’ō and Ayame, easily sealing his wounds.  

He didn’t seem to have any internal wounds, yet Orihime saw no signs of Ulquiorra waking up.  He was definitely alive, and she was glad to see shallow breaths escape his mouth.  She peered closely at his face.  A small smile formed on her mouth as she noticed that even when he was unconscious, Ulquiorra was still always frowning.  

Her eyes wandered toward the upper part of his face and her brows furrowed when she noticed something very strange.  “Um—ah—Ichigo?  Can you come here for a second?”   

She heard him walk up behind her.  “What’s up?  Something wrong with him?”

Orihime motioned him to come close to her.  “Can you close your eyes for a moment?”

Ichigo did as she asked, albeit giving her a confused glance beforehand.  She watched as his eyelids flexed a bit to cover his eyes; his eye sockets had that slight bulge that showed that there was a . . . spherical eyeball nestled inside it.  Quite normal.    
  
She turned back to Ulquiorra and peered at his closed eyes.  The skin that made up the eyelids hung limp against his eye sockets, as if there was nothing behind them.  Gently, with her pinky finger, Orihime cautiously peeled back Ulquiorra’s eyelids, shivering at the familiar coldness of his body.  Immediately, she released him and turned toward Ichigo with an alarmed expression.  

“What’s the matter?”  
  
Orihime gestured with a frantic exuberance, a worried frenzy etched on her face.  “He doesn’t have any eyes!  There’s nothing behind his eyelids!”  
  
Ichigo raised his eyebrows.  “What?  Seriously?”  He, too, took a look, gagging on the spot.  “Oh, man, that’s disturbing.  Shouldn’t his high-speed regeneration recreate his eyes?”

“I thought that, too.”  She ran a finger across his eyelids and took a deep breath.  “Sōten Kisshun, I reject.”  Orihime watched eagerly as she saw Ulquiorra’s eyelids bulge and quickly pushed back his eyelids, glad to see the white of a sclera and the dark green of Ulquiorra's pupils.  She turned toward Ichigo, grinning.  “That’s much better.”  
  
Her husband nodded.  “Yeah, anything less would have been creepy.”  He frowned.  “I don’t think we should keep him here, though.  It’s not safe, now that he's healed.”

Orihime looked at the unconscious Ulquiorra for a moment.  A wave of sadness washed over her.  Ichigo was right.  They couldn’t really keep an Arrancar—and an Espada, no less—in their house.  Her eyes wandered to the Hollow hole on his chest.  It was centered right where one’s heart was normally located.  A symbol of Ulquiorra’s nihilistic search for happiness.

“Maybe . . . maybe we should wait until he wakes up.”  Quietly, she summoned Hinagiku, Lily and Baigon and created a Santen Kesshun shield around Ulquiorra.  If he happened to wake up in a destructive mood (although, she highly doubted that Ulquiorra would wake up in _any_ sort of mood—but that was just his personality), he would at least do minimal damage.

Ichigo’s brows furrowed for a second, and he looked like he was going to argue for a moment.  He then turned to look at Orihime’s pleading expression and then relented.  “Alright, but seriously, just until he wakes up.”  A strange odor then assaulted his nose, and Ichigo looked around the house in confusion.  “Is—is something burning?”

“Oh no!”  Orihime exclaimed, as she jumped up from the Arrancar and ran to the kitchen in a frenzy.  “My cupcakes!”


	2. 2 | SiGhT is for the bLiNd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulquiorra dreams of Mureciélago and accepts his newfound life, while Ichigo contemplates Ulquiorra's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos, everyone! Hope you like this chapter!

_Hollows didn’t dream._

_Ulquiorra knew that for a fact, yet here he was, listless in the dreamscape.  At first, he thought maybe death had overcome him, but the fierce golden light surrounding him held no notion of Hell.  In fact, the light was quite genial and warmed his face._

_One thing was for sure, though; he was not in the real world, dead or not.  When he opened his eyes, he could_ see _, although all there was to look at was the light.  The last time he had been conscious, he’d been blind, stripped of his eyes, hadn’t he?_

_He remembered no more and shielded his eyes from the brightness, choosing to peer at his arms instead.  They were clothed in white and as he regarded the rest of robe-like clothing, Ulquiorra realized that he was in his first Release form, his Resurrección._

_It had been some time since he had ever taken this semblance.  Hadn’t the last time been when he had first presented himself to Lord Aizen?  No, that wasn’t right; it had to be more recent.  A sliver of a memory peaked at the edge of his mind, of an orange-haired woman and a bright-haired man.  Ulquiorra tried to grasp it, but it slipped away._

_He let it._

_There was some comfort in forgetting, comfort in remembering only bits and pieces of his life before death—he was dead, now, wasn’t he?  Hadn’t he just admitted it?  Ulquiorra’s thoughts sloshed together like té negro in a cup.  Something wasn’t right.  Memories faded in and out of his mind and pieced themselves together in orders so random that he couldn’t even begin to make sense of them._

_“You are not dead,” a voice echoed throughout the dreamscape._

_Ulquiorra’s guard went up immediately.  How had he not sensed another presence?_

_“You cannot sense me, Ulquiorra,” said the voice, “for one cannot sense themselves.”_

_He looked straight ahead, using his ears and pesquisa to detect from where the disembodied voice was coming from.  He found no one; he was alone in this great golden space._

_Suddenly, there was a burst of air, and the light faded.  Darkness enveloped him like a shroud, and instantly Ulquiorra was reminded of the dark abyss in which he was born._

_A greenness glowed in front of him, and his eyes widened.  “Murciélago?”_

* * *

The next morning, Ichigo Kurosaki awoke to the sound of Orihime’s alarm clock.  It was a loud sound, filled with a short snippet of a strange techno-pop-rock remix his wife had fancied.  

“Ichigo?”  Orihime mumbled in her sleep.  “Is that you?”

He raised an eyebrow.  Did he really sound like a untrained, untalented seventeen-year-old singer?  “No, it’s just your alarm clock, Orihime.”

Orihime yawned.  “Oh.”  She rubbed her eyes and readjusted her pillow.  “Would you mind turning it off, please?  I’d like to get some more sleep.”

“Of course.”  Ichigo quickly hit the ‘SNOOZE’ button and massaged his forehead, wide awake.  So much for getting any sleep.  He would have to talk to Orihime later to see if she could change the alarm sound to something less . . . deafening.  Even a wailing Hollow would be quieter.  

He clambered off of the bed and took light steps down the staircase so not to wake anyone.  It was quite early and dawn had barely clutched the morning yet.  The sky was a bruised mess of gold, red and purple.  Ichigo fixed himself a cup of sencha (it was a habit he picked up from his father) and ambled toward the window that faced in the direction of the sunrise.  

It wasn’t often that one could find Ichigo Kurosaki standing plainly and doing nothing in particular, but he enjoyed the few times that he was able to.  There was always some Hollow that needed fighting, some patient that needed seeing in his father's clinic, or something that Orihime _needed_ to show him ‘ _right away if he wasn’t busy’_.  He didn’t mind the latter all that much, for Orihime’s idea of interesting was always a combination of ‘quite strange’ and ‘intriguing’, but there was always some small reward in spending the first few moments of your day alone.

It was then, that Ichigo remembered that he _wasn’t_ alone.  He set his tea on the windowsill and walked toward a corner of their living room floor.  Laying on a soft navy rug that Orihime had procured from somewhere, lay Ulquiorra Cifer.

The Espada had arrived on their doorstep yesterday, reiatsu waning to the point of death, and Orihime and him had decided to take him into their house until he woke up.  After Orihime had healed him, she had placed the rug underneath the Arrancar so that he wouldn’t be lying on the cold wooden floor and had dubbed his section of the living room, ‘Ulquiorra’s Corner’.  Very clever.

Ichigo pulled out a chair from the dining room table and dragged it toward the motionless man.  Sitting on it, he leaned forward and peered at Ulquiorra’s face.

 _Always frowning_ , he noted.   _Always_.  He supposed he wasn’t one to talk; didn’t Uryū once tell him that he had a permanent scowl?

“Ah, what does he know, anyway?”  Ichigo grumbled to Ulquiorra’s figure.  The unconscious Espada didn’t respond.  That was expected.  

 Feeling slightly silly talking to a might-as-well-be-dead Arrancar, Ichigo’s frown deepened as he leaned further into his chair.

 Ichigo tilted more toward Ulquiorra, trying to relieve himself of the image of seeing the back of the Espada’s eye sockets when Orihime had peeled his eyelids back; it was the only thing he could see when he looked at Ulquiorra now.  He’d seen many disturbing things in his lifetime, but that image almost nearly took the cake.  He shuddered.

It had been some time since he had battled him, but Ichigo tried to remember Ulquiorra.  His voice, it had been so detached, yet so sure that his nihilistic views were right, hadn’t it?  Ulquiorra had been the only Espada to achieve Ressureción Segunda Etapa.  Now _that_ was a fight Ichigo could remember.  Or he would, had he been in his right mind for most of it.  

One thing he _could_ remember was Ulquiorra dying.  He had looked so . . . mild and for once, he had been easy to read, his eyebrows finally betraying an emotion.  When he had seen Ulquiorra’s monstrous black wings disintegrating, he knew the fight had been over, an anticlimactic ending.  

One more Espada had been defeated.  Orihime was safe.  Uryū was safe.  He had succeeded in protecting them both.  

But even in the midst of the success, Ichigo couldn’t help but feel a sliver of regret.  He knew that had he spared Ulquiorra, it wasn’t like the Espada would turn tides and join them in the fight against his master once he had admitted the existence of feelings.  Nevertheless, watching the Cuatro Espada, who seemed unbeatable in every way, disintegrate and become ash seemed wrong . . . almost as if Ichigo had stolen something from him—stolen a chance for Ulquiorra to act upon those feelings he had acknowledged, whatever they may have been.

Although she didn’t say it, he knew that Orihime had been troubled after Ulquiorra’s death, too.  Out of all the Espada, he had been the one she had been forced to spend the most time with, given as Aizen had tasked him with her protection.  He knew that she hated Ulquiorra, yes, but the way he had died had spooked her a bit.  

Ichigo considered this his fault.  Who _wouldn’t_ be startled when a sixteen-year-old boy turned into a monstrous Hollow-like creature and kicked an Espada’s ass like it was no big deal?  And it wasn’t just Ulquiorra’s ass that that . . .   _thing_ had kicked . . . it was guilty of Uryū’s wounds, as well.

He sighed and stood up, trying not to think too much.  Ichigo walked and retrieved his tea from the windowsill, leaving the unconscious Espada and memories he’d rather forget behind.

* * *

 

He felt the sensation of consciousness first.  It was warm, warmer than his dream, but it was an even, controlled warmth, almost as if it were being regulated somehow.

Unlike in his dream, upon his awakening, Ulquiorra was sure of his blindness, of the affliction that nettled his eyes.  Only, he realized quickly, there was something _nestled inside his eye sockets_ this time.  He brought a hand toward his eyes and felt around.  There they were—two eyeballs.  His eyebrows raised.  How could someone regenerate his eyes when he himself had not been able to?  

It then clicked.  He had witnessed this type of power before.  ‘The Rejection of Events’, Lord Aizen had said.  This was Orihime Inoue’s doing.  It made sense; the familiar spiritual presence that he had detected in the World of the Living must have been hers.

Ulquiorra opened his eyes, cursing them when all that he could see was darkness.  It seemed, that even with newly regenerated eyes, receiving eyesight along with a new life would be too generous.  His reiatsu was at its normal gargantuan peak, his hierro seemed to be in order, and his pesquisa was as sharp as ever.  It was just his sight that seemed to be lacking.

 _A pity_ , he thought, closing his eyes, as there was nothing to be seen.   _That’s how one would describe this situation.  Pitiful_.  Not once in Ulquiorra’s entire existence had he deemed himself a creature that needed pity.  Arrancars despised the mere notion of the word—Nnoitra, especially—but to him, the idea was slightly fascinating.  He had never given it much thought.  To pity oneself was to admit that they were at the lowest of low.  Had he himself ultimately breached ‘the lowest of low’?  He had to admit, something about the thought of that irritated him.         

Ulquiorra then realized that because he had been healed, his plans had been severely addled.  He no longer had the urgency to return to Hueco Mundo so he would not defile himself by dying in the World of the Living.  It was not indispensably necessary to interrogate Ichigo Kurosaki about the defeat of Lord Aizen anymore.  There was nothing more to do here.  This trip almost had been in vain.

Perhaps he would return back home.  Surely there were tasks to do.  Of course, he had yet to comprehend what, be he was sure of work’s existence.  A wayward thought clamored for his attention at the back of his mind, but he chose to suppress it. It, too, was pitiful.  

He motioned with his hand, and he could feel a Garganta opening.  Ulquiorra did not consider thanking Orihime for her kindness in healing him—he had not asked her to, nor did he care about the reasoning behind her actions.  What was done was done.

He could tell that the creation of the Garganta was successful through sound.  Although, the place where he was settled in at the moment was quiet—only a clock was ticking—, nothing could compare to Hueco Mundo’s complete and utter silence.  He turned toward the direction of the noise, or the lack thereof, to be accurate.

Before he could take the first step, though, he felt a mass of reiatsu creep up behind him.  His pupils dilated.  He would know that feeling anywhere.

It was his killer.

“Going already?  You could at least tell us why you were here in the first place,” Ichigo mused.  His voice was tense but somewhat amused.  

Ulquiorra turned toward the voice of the Substitute Shinigami in a deliberate fashion and charged a Cero on his index finger.  There were no orders to fire such a technique, but Ulquiorra surmised it was more sensible to appear threatening.  “How strange.  You expect that I must explain my agendas to you.”

“Ichigo?” a voice called from afar.  The pitter-patter of quick footsteps echoed across the space.  “Is he awake?”

Orihime Inoue.  Hm, he was unaware that Ichigo and Orihime shared the same living quarters.   

“Yeah, he’s definitely awake.  And he thinks he’s going back to Hueco Mundo without explaining himself.”   They seemed to completely disregard that he was firing a deadly weapon at them.  Had these piddling humans dodging skills become so advanced that they could be able to evade his attacks?

“Oh, I see.”

Tired of their conversation and wanting to test his hypothesis, Ulquiorra released the Cero from his fingertips.  He didn’t see where it landed, per se, but everyone in the neighborhood could hear the immensely loud boom from the aftermath.  

“What the hell?  You just destroyed my favorite plant!”

“Ah, Ichigo, you have a favorite plant?”

Ulquiorra tuned out the rest of the pair’s banter.  For all that it was worth, he had destroyed . . . a plant?  For a moment, he felt slightly saddened.  He would have liked to see the plant, yes;  Hueco Mundo sported quartz trees for days, but nothing in the realm of plant life existed other than that.  Instantly, he banished the thought, returning his mind to its usual state of apathy.  Spending too much time with humans often made him forget of his duties.

“If you are quite through, I will take my leave, now.”  He took a step toward the Garganta and realized, while he was here, he might as well just finish the task he had come to the World of the Living to do, whether on the brink of death or not.  “I would like to know something, Ichigo Kurosaki.”  

The chattering stopped.  

He continued, “Explain to me how you, a mere human turned shinigami, did it.”

Ichigo seemed to know exactly what Ulquiorra was talking about.  “It’s . . . kind of a long story.”

“I am in no hurry.”

It was quiet for a moment and the room was filled with the bated breaths of all its occupants.

“Come sit down,” Orihime said.  Her voice was wary, but kind.  “I’ll make us some tea while you two talk.”

Tea.  How long had it been since he had shared a cup of it around a table with the rest of the Espada and Lord Aizen?  Too long.  Nevertheless, he could not accept this kindness from a human.  It would go against his very nature.  “That will not be necessary.”

He heard Ichigo scoff, “Lighten up, will you?  We’re not going to poison it or anything.  Besides, you just said you had nowhere to be.”

 _Poison it_?  Did he really believe that Ulquiorra was afraid of being killed by Ichigo’s hands again?  It, in fact, was quite the contrary; there was no fear in Ulquiorra of Ichigo—there was no fear in him of anyone.  It was not the misguided kind of fearlessness that provoked heroes to take pointlessly stupid actions but a calm one.  He knew his strength, he was not named the Cuatro Espada for no reason.

There must have been some reason for Ichigo to insist on sharing something as trivial as tea with someone who had once been his enemy.  Ulquiorra discerned that it had something to do with an emotion that he had deciphered earlier.

“You pity me.”  He did not add, _because you killed me_.  It was not a question, just an observation.  

 _Interesting_.  First, it was Ulquiorra that had pitied himself, but now Ichigo as well.  He soaked in the foreign feeling.  This pitying sensation, although strange, was not as deplorable as Nnoitra always made it out to be.  It seemed to be based on one’s perspective and if one decided to wallow in it; Ulquiorra chose neither.

“Call it what you like,” Ichigo attested, “I like to think of it as being _hospitable_.”

The thought,—the feeling—that had creeped up in Ulquiorra’s mind before had returned.  He diagnosed it as ‘curiosity’.  That, too, was a strange fledging of an emotion.  In the end, it won out over his rationality and Ulquiorra found himself saying, “Very well, then.”

He waited on a chair, which Ichigo had directed was three paces left of him, as Orihime wandered toward the kitchen to prepare the tea, Ichigo in tow.

A few moments later, the pair returned, and he felt hands placing a cup of something slightly bitter-smelling in his palms.  Was this the tea that had been promised to him?  It was very different from the té negro—black tea—that Lord Aizen had always insisted that the Espada drink.  He carefully brought the strange-shaped cup to his lips and drank.  The drink itself had a subtle bite to it, but Ulquiorra wasn’t entirely sure he disliked it.

“It’s sencha,” Orihime explained, referring to the tea.

Ulquiorra swirled the liquid slightly in his cup.  “Japanese tea.”

“Alright,” Ichigo began.  He paused, and Ulquiorra assumed he was taking a sip of tea.  “I guess you deserve answers, considering Aizen was your ‘Master’ or something.”  And then he started.

Ulquiorra listened intently, as Ichigo retold the tales of him defeating Lord Aizen after learning the Final Getsuga Tenshō from Tensa Zangetsu and Aizen’s aid in the fall of Yhwach.

“Then . . . Aizen is still alive?”  he asked.

“I’m pretty sure, yeah,” Ichigo replied.    

Ulquiorra leaned back.  “I see.”  This definitely changed things.  He supposed he should have expected this.  Aizen’s presence was not in Hueco Mundo, certainly, and if it wasn’t there, there nowherehere else it could have been.  It was only natural, he supposed, that he had been defeated.

He could scarcely believe it, though.  Could scarcely believe that _Ichigo Kurosaki_ defeated _Aizen_ .  And, yet, he believed Ichigo’s tale.  He’d said it before—if anyone _could_ defeat Aizen, it would be him.

But, what did Aizen’s defeat mean for him?  Ulquiorra had to accept it was a reality now.  All his life, he had wandered about, cherishing the emptiness of nothing.  It was Aizen that had given him any sort of purpose.

With Aizen gone, what was Ulquiorra to do now?


	3. 3 | JAPANISH is my CUISINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulquiorra's heart finally says its first sentence, and seemingly, its wishes are not in tandem with his mind ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very late chapter, guys! I hope the next few won't take as much time!

Orihime watched as Ulquiorra calmly sipped on his tea.  He seemed to be completely at ease, despite the life-changing news that Ichigo had just poured on him.  It was so strange; she had never met anyone so stoic.

She gulped and addressed the Arrancar.  “If … if you don’t mind me asking, but what are you going to do now?”  She had to stop doing that—had to stop being afraid of him.  

He tilted his head in the direction of her voice and seemed to mull over the question.  It took a few moments for him to answer, “What else is there to do besides return to Hueco Mundo?”

“Wait, you’re going to go back?”  Ichigo sputtered.  He looked absolutely flabbergasted, and she could imagine why.  “Even though you can’t see anything?”

“My pesquisa serves as vision enough for me.  Unlike you humans, I can trace reiatsu more efficiently.  That is all I need.”

“Yeah, that’d work great,” Ichigo grumbled.  “If everyone had supreme amounts of reiatsu!”

Ulquiorra raised an eyebrow.  “Are you so foolish to believe that beings in Hueco Mundo don’t emit any form of spiritual pressure?”

Orihime clenched the folds of her skirt.  She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live alone, _completely_ blind, in Hueco Mundo.  Ulquiorra was much stronger than her if he was willing to go through that.    

She gulped and shook her head.   _No, I mustn’t think like that_.  But, she couldn’t help but pity the former Espada.  Her thoughts wandered back to the moment he had died, reaching his hand out toward her.  By the time she had finally mustered the courage to reach back, he had already begun to crumble to dust.

But now, here he was, fully-fleshed and standing right before her.  

An overwhelming sense of guilt washed over her like a tidal wave.  His blindness.  It was her fault.  It had to be.    

She and Ichigo had figured out that Ulquiorra was blind from the moment that he had woken up and Ichigo had found him trying to leave.  

_“What the hell?  You just destroyed my favorite plant!”_

_“Ah, Ichigo, you have a favorite plant?”_

_She smiled.  It was amusing to see her normally impassive husband so flustered.  And he had a favorite plant!  That was so adorable!_

_A thought dawned on her, and her smile faded.  “Ichigo, something’s wrong with him.”  She motioned toward Ulquiorra, who stood perfectly still, lost in thought._

_Ichigo nodded.  “He wasn’t even aiming his Cero at us.”_

_“Yeah, and his eyes weren’t focused at all when he opened them for that one second.  It’s almost like … almost like he can’t see anything.”_

_The orange-haired man’s eyebrows shot up immediately.  “Do you think it has anything to do with the fact that he had no eyeballs yesterday?”_

_“It must be,” Orihime replied, her eyes widening.  Had her rejection only regenerated his physical eye and not Ulquiorra’s sight?  But that was impossible._

_“But your Sōten Kisshun is flawless, right?”_

_A pit of dread began to form in her stomach.  “I thought so, too.”  She realized how vain that may have sounded and waved her hands wildly in apology.  “Uh—I mean—um, ah, what I mean is, I … I … really thought it would work!”  She paused and dropped her gaze.  “It always has in the past.”_

_Ichigo smiled slightly at her flustered performance.  “Yeah.”  He looked thoughtful for a moment.  “Maybe it has nothing to do with your powers, Orihime,” he turned to look at Ulquiorra, “maybe it has to do with him.  I mean, isn’t it kind of strange that he’s here, in the World of the Living—resurrected?”_

_“Mm-hm.  The only way that he could possibly be alive is if … his body regenerated itself.”_

_“Yeah, so maybe there was just a flaw in his regeneration.  Maybe that’s why he can’t see anymore and your Sōten Kisshun can’t reject it.”_  

_She nodded.  “You’re probably right.”  Something caught the corner of her eye.  Ulquiorra had broken out of his trance-like pose and was turning toward the Garganta._

_“If you are quite through, I will take my leave, now,” he spoke._

Breaking out of her reverie, Orihime poured a few more drops of tea into Ichigo’s waiting cup.  The silence in the room almost seemed alive, vapid and expansive, suffocating any and all of its victims.  She needed to clear it.  

“Do you like the tea?” she asked Ulquiorra, whose own cup was running dry.  She didn’t know whether to fill it or not, but in the end, she decided that a few more droplets couldn’t hurt.

Again, he paused for a time before answering, “It’s unlike the tea served in Hueco Mundo.”  He took another sip, and Orihime was amazed that he was able to bring the cup to his mouth sightlessly without having even a drop dribble down the sides.  “Its acridity is not without its merits.”

“Huh,” Ichigo muttered.  “It makes you wonder what kind of tea that they have where you live.”

Ulquiorra strangely seemed up for conversation, and Orihime was grateful for the sound.  “Té negro.  Black tea.”  His hands explored the ceramic exterior of the mug, almost as if he were looking for something.  His countenance almost appeared forlorn; Orihime assumed, in his own way, Ulquiorra missed his days as an Espada.  

“Tell me something,” he said, after a spell.  He turned his head so that, had he been able to see, he would have been staring straight at Ichigo and Orihime.  “What is it like, this human world that you live in?”

“The World of the Living?” Orihime mused aloud.  Certainly different from Hueco Mundo, that was for sure.  Unlike Ulquiorra’s home, her world exuded friendliness that you couldn’t find when having companionship in tandem with Hollows.  It was a world filled with wonder and hope, with wisps of hardships that made it all _real_.  “It’s … warm.  Everyone has a chance to be happy here.”

She noticed the very fringes of the corners of Ulquiorra’s mouth upturn—it was nearly imperceptible to the point where Orihime had to wonder if she had imagined it.  She couldn’t decipher what it meant.

“You can be whoever you want, I guess,” Ichigo added, scratching his neck.  “Why’d you ask?”    

Ulquiorra was absolutely silent.  She supposed that the question her husband posed had quite a bit of merit, yet she failed to see why a weighty answer was necessary.  Perhaps it was different for Arrancars.   

With a heavy tongue, Ulquiorra finally spoke.  “Your words—Ichigo, Orihime— … interest me.”  Carefully, he put down the cup in his hands, hardly fumbling with it as he set it on the table directly in front of him.  “I am a Hollow, I belong in Hueco Mundo.  But the answers of you two have me intrigued.”

Orihime cocked her head and widened her eyes.  What was he saying?   

“ _Intrigue_ you?”  Ichigo asked this question in disbelief, almost as if he had previously given up on ever trying to extract an emotion from the normally stoic Espada. “Meaning?”

“I have every intention of returning home soon,” Ulquiorra clarified, crossing his hands over his lap, “but I would … like to learn more of your world. You said, Orihime, that all have a chance to find joy in this place.  I would like to attempt to do the same.”

Orihime couldn’t believe what she was hearing.  This Ulquiorra, the same, rational Arrancar that relied solely on logic to decipher anything and everything and claimed that the invisible did not exist was … trying to find merriment in the World of the Living.  The pity in her stomach yowled for dominance.  She tried to force it down and focused on his words.

Ulquiorra’s voice had had a strange hollowness, even as he spoke of finding happiness.  She supposed that he could hardly believe his own voice—supposed that Ulquiorra was not speaking through his mouth, but from his _heart_ , and that his words were full of meaning that only he—if he chose to acknowledge it—could understand.

It was all so strange.  Her and Ichigo’s relationship with Ulquiorra was so fluid.  When they had first met him, he was an enemy, a dreaded Espada.  It was so black and white.  But then, sooner than they would have ever imagined, he had become something far worse than any kind of foe: he became a pitiable ‘regret’.  For what she regretted, she never knew, and she never mulled over him long enough to form an answer.  

And now, sitting on her couch, drinking tea, Ulquiorra was an ‘opportunity’.

A small smile formed on Orihime’s face.  An opportunity to show someone all the happiness she had found in life.  What more could she ask?  “You should.  And we’ll help you.”  She turned to her husband, and her smile grew wider.  “What do you think, Ichigo?”

Unsurprisingly, he didn’t look wholly convinced of Ulquiorra’s motives—his adorable scowl was proof of that.  “Yeah, but how the hell do we know you’re telling the truth?”

Ulquiorra’s frown deepened.  “I suppose your doubt is justified.”  He paused.  “I am an Espada—had I wanted to kill you, I would have done so from the start.  There is no point of dragging out conversations for this long when you mean to do battle.”

She watched the suspicion in Ichigo’s eyes melt until there was only thin wisps of a healthy wariness left.  “I guess that wouldn’t be a part of your nature, now, would it?”  Ichigo set his cup on the coffee table next to Ulquiorra’s and stood up.  “All right.  You can stay here … just don’t do anything stupid … I’m a lot stronger than before.”

Orihime looked at Ichigo in disbelief.  She had no idea that he would suggest that Ulquiorra stay in _their_ house … she had assumed he would say something of the likes that it was fine for him to stay in the World of the Living!  She had no qualms about the living arrangement—they had an extra bedroom in the attic, yet it seemed so … foreign.  So odd.

“Of that I am aware,” Ulquiorra replied.  “Your reiatsu is not the same caliber as it was before.”  He too, raised himself off of the couch.  Orihime assumed that he used his pesquisa so that he was able to detect Ichigo’s location and turned toward him.  “I will return to Hueco Mundo someday, but at this time, I will remain in this deplorable World.”  He paused and lowered his gaze. “Due to your actions, I feel . . .”  His words ended there, as if he had become lost in thought.  “What is this … emotion … the one that follows the act of a merciful deed?”

She grinned.  He was like a baby bird, flapping his wings for the first time in the sky full of feelings.  “Gratitude, I think.”

“Gratitude,” he repeated.  

* * *

 

Ulquiorra opened his eyes.  This … this … this was not how he had envisioned his trip to the World of the Living.  His thoughts had prophesied the simple of concepts of answers and _death_.  

Yet … when it had been the time to implore, to demand, to _return_ , the words that had been foreordained on his lips, wrought strictly from the rational thought of his brain, had instead wriggled and writhed their post from his mind toward his … heart.

He couldn’t deny it now: his heart was there.  It seemed nigh an infestation, for once he had acknowledged it, his heart couldn’t help but disease every thought that exuded from his head and every syllable that echoed from his mouth.

_“What is it like, this human world that you live in?”_

Ulquiorra considered this question a curse.  It was undesired and spoken without his consent.  It implied that he was weak, interested and invested in the lives of _humans_ —implied that joy in the human world was worth finding.  Nevertheless, he was completely unable to crush it; the small, miniscule iota of _intrigue_ that propelled him to follow up on his question and to come to the decision to stay at Ichigo’s home.

It was the ultimate juxtaposition in terms of living arrangements, yet Ulquiorra had difficulty in imagining the situation in any other away.

“Yo,” Ichigo said, breaking Ulquiorra’s train of thoughts.  “Come here.  Three paces to your left, six forward, three right.  Then, sit.”

Ulquiorra blinked.  There was a compulsion in him to stand up, travel three paces to his left, six paces forward and three paces right and sit; Lord Aizen’s orders were absolute.  But then, he remembered that said master was no more.  He decided that Ichigo’s tone was more requestive rather than ordering, but his natural wariness won him over.  “Explain where those steps would lead me.”

Ichigo _tch_ -ed, and replied, “Relax.  Those are just the directions to get to table where we eat.”

 _Eat_?  Ulquiorra thought as he followed Ichigo’s instructions.  He felt no hunger in his stomach, and decided, “There is no need.”

“Come on, you’ve been dead for eight years and I’m guessing you haven’t eaten anything since who-knows-when.”

 _Pity_.  He felt it in the tone of Ichigo’s voice, in the slight warble than accompanied the words ‘who-knows-when’.  Or … perhaps, he was reading things incorrectly … perhaps it truly was the _hospitality_ that Ichigo had mentioned.  The thought was heavy in his mind as he came to the end of his path and sat.  

With the slight touch of his fingers, Ulquiorra felt the low wooden surface of a table.  Having never experienced dining arrangements akin to this, he deduced that it must have been some sort of Japanese custom.  

He felt the shift of a body seating themselves somewhere near him and the reiatsu proved it to be Ichigo.  

There was a heavy, atmospheric silence between them.  He could not decide if it was comfortable for not.  In the quiet, Ulquiorra realized the true anomaly that was Ichigo Kurosaki.  A boy, now a man, tasked with the protection of everyone who he deemed precious, who boasted a will to succeed so robust that no one could stand in his way … not even Ulquiorra.

Ulquiorra closed his eyes, again, concentrating on the feel of Ichigo’s reiatsu.  When he had fought him, it was unlike anything he had felt before.  The creature, the _Hollow_ that he had turned into had had power so tangible and raw and overwhelming and … and … now that he was truly focused on the reiatsu, Ichigo’s power was not completely different in term of strength than it had been then.  Now, it was more controlled and the rough, animalistic edge had been smoothed away.

There was absolutely every way that Ichigo had beaten Aizen.

“Okay!” Orihime’s voice came from afar, getting closer.  Ulquiorra had not realized that she had not been in the room for much of the time.  He heard something being set down on the low table.  “I’ve got kake soba with whipped cheese and okra and kaki no tane with ketchup!”

“Kake soba?”  Ulquiorra asked.  He knew that soba was a type of Japanese noodle; he had occasionally seen Aizen dine on such, but much of what Orihime had said was completely foreign to him.

She fumbled a pair of long wooden sticks into his hands, and replied, “Yep.  I know the whipped cheese and okra part’s a bit weird, but trust me, it tastes good!”  

Ulquiorra’s attention was now diverted toward the apparatus in his palm.  A feeling bloomed within him; he diagnosed it as _confusion_.  “Why have you given me sticks?”

He heard Ichigo scratch his head.  “Did Aizen always make you eat with forks or something?”

“What other utensil would one use?”  As far as Ulquiorra was concerned, one could consume their food with one of four items: their hands, a fork, a spoon, or speared with a knife.  

The sound of wood tapping against wood echoed through the room.  “Chopsticks?”  Orihime responded.  “It’s a lot easier to eat soba with them.”  

He felt Orihime’s presence next to him.  “Do you not know how to hold them?  Here, I’ll show you.”  She grasped his right hand and wrapped it around the pair of wooden sticks in a position that he tried to memorize.  “Now, open the chopsticks using your middle finger and close with your index.”

Ulquiorra did as she asked and nodded; he could see this as an acceptable way to pick up food.  While he was not entirely hungry, the strange smells wafting from the dish placed in front of him peaked his … _curiosity_.  Carefully, he dipped his chopsticks into the nearest scent, glad when he felt said utensil tap against the inside of a ceramic bowl.

“That’s kake soba,” Ichigo explained.  “Orihime’s stuff made it smell kinda weird”—a playful _hmph_ was heard from his wife— “but it tastes pretty good.  It’s basically regular soba, but with scallions.”

Ulquiorra cautiously drew a single noodle at the end of his chopsticks and brought it into his mouth.  He raised an eyebrow.  The buckwheat noodle was quite a different in taste compared to the tortilla española that was usually served to the Espada and commonplace in Hueco Mundo, but it was not utterly deplorable.  First the tea, and then the food.  The World of the Living was so very different 

He didn’t exactly mind it, even though the whipped cheese made the soba infused with the flavor of watered-down falsified cheese and okra.  There were small, strangely dense, clumps of some sweetened cake that added a slight sugary note to the dish.  

“Hey, Orihime, this combination is actually really good,” Ichigo commented.

“Really?”  Her voice lilted with excitement.  “I was worried that you wouldn’t like it and wasn’t going to serve it, but I tasted it and thought it was yummy.  It was probably since I added my secret ingredient!”

“Oi, you know, when you tell everyone that your ‘secret ingredient’ is donut crumbs, it’s not a secret, anymore.”

Ulquiorra felt Orihime’s reiatsu turn toward him.  “But, _you_ didn’t know donut crumbs were my secret ingredient, right, Ulquiorra?  That means it was a secret for _some_ one!”

He was somewhat offended by their newfound casualness toward him and was apt to reprimand, but he couldn’t help but he intrigued by their conversation.  Nevertheless, he had more pressing matters to implore: “What are these ‘donut crumbs’ that you speak of?”

Ichigo scoffed.  “First, you don’t know what kake soba is, then you don’t know how to use chopsticks, and now you don’t even know what _donuts_ are?  What the hell did Aizen feed you guys?”

 _What did Aizen feed us_?  Aizen favored traditional Japanese cuisine, but the Espada had found sustenance on food that they had been consuming long before the shinigamis’ arrival: paella, pulpo a la gallega, fabada asturiana, empanadas and the like.  “Aizen did not bother with the Espadas’ food unless someone refrained from eating and thereby deprived themselves of nutrients.”  

“I guess all this Japanese food is kind of weird to you, huh?” Orihime asked.  

Ulquiorra thought for a moment.  “Strange, yes.  But adaptability is the key to living.”

And in this world, with Ichigo and Orihime, he did not plan on simply living: he was ready to _survive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all ye Japanese folk, if I got some stuff wrong, please forgive and correct me! All the Japanese information was gleaned from Wikipedia, as well as the Spanish.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to let you know, this is not a romance story. Ichihime is there on the sidelines ('cause they're married), yes, but there's no real romance-y stuff.
> 
> Also, how was it? It's my first time writing Ulquiorra's character, so please tell me what you think!


End file.
